


Respite

by SilverDagger



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, No Smut, Sharing a Bed, canonverse, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3692790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDagger/pseuds/SilverDagger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ymir likes to think she's not the type to feel guilty about anything, but after the battle of Trost, Krista isn't the only one who can't sleep, or the only one in need of someone to talk to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respite

Ymir lies in her bunk the night after Trost's fall and reclamation, looking up at something invisible far past the darkened ceiling, and wonders how many lives she could have saved that day if she hadn't been a coward.

It wouldn't have ended well for her, of course. She's heard rumors about what the Military Police get up to when it comes to dealing with undesirables, and no one in this cage of a city likes things they can't control. She'd only be killed like they're sure to kill Eren, if he doesn't have the nerve to stop them, and then everything she meant to do here would have been a waste. But that's not what held her frozen, thumb pressed against the edge of a folded steel blade as she tried and failed to summon the resolve.

Not for long - can't freeze for long and not die - but there had been a moment, accelerating pulse and chest too too tight to breathe and those old, insistent thoughts rolling around her head: _what if it's just like last time? What if you start killing people too?_

_What if you can't change back?_

"Idiot," she mutters under her breath, but that's not enough to keep the blurred, shapeless almost-memories from returning, or the cold sweat that breaks out again at the thought of losing herself to the titan's mind, or mindlessness, whatever the hell it is that drives them to do what they do.

It's not her problem, regardless. Or that's what she tells herself, at least, in halting repetition, once it's clear she's not going to be sleeping any time soon - not her problem, not her fault, nothing to do with her at all. But when she closes her eyes, she can still hear the shriek of steel on stone, canon-fire and the crackle of funeral pyres, and she knows it's never quite that easy. So she keeps her eyes open, and listens to the old building settling instead, the barely audible creaks and groans and there, at the edge of her hearing, the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway.

Ymir goes instinctively still - no weapon in reach and no real need for one, but that doesn't stop her from being jumpy, like some scout caught deep in unmapped territory. But when the door creaks open on its hinges, it's only Krista there, peering around the edge of the frame like she still isn't certain whether she wants to step inside or run. Her choice to make, either way. Her choice to live with. Ymir doesn't say anything.

Krista hovers there in the threshold for a second longer, then whispers, "hey. Are you awake?"

"If I wasn't before," Ymir says, trying for casual, "I sure as hell am now."

It comes out ruder than she'd meant it to, judging by the way that Krista seems to shrink a little before regaining her will, her chin lifting in the kind of pride that only comes from the expectation of being turned away.

"I could go," she says.

"Yeah, or you could hurry up and get in here before they beat your ass for breaking curfew," Ymir says. She isn't sure anyone will care tonight, or for a long time afterward, but it's hard to say for sure. Knowing these assholes, they might just decide that rules and regs are more important now than ever, and the pettier the better. But that permission seems to be all Krista needs to decide; she takes a step into the room, and then another, lets the door swing shut behind her. The only light now is a silvery rectangle of moonlight crawling its way across the floor, leaving her a dark shape in loose nightclothes, mostly shadow and a few reflected slivers of light.

Ymir doesn't move, and Krista lingers there in the doorway, looking numb or stunned or just uncertain, now that she's here, of what she means to do next.

"I though we were going to die today," she says. "It puts things into perspective."

"Oh, yeah? Figured out you don't really want to?" Ymir says. Her voice sounds harsh even to her own ears, a reflexive challenge that she wishes instantly she could take back. She's no good at this, trying to say what she thinks without it coming out mean, and it feels like all her thoughts have sharp edges tonight.

"Something like that," Krista says. "I..."

"Yeah?"

"Are you alright?"

"Am I - " Ymir echoes, suddenly off balance. She knows she's staring, can't manage to make herself stop. She can feel Krista's eyes on her in the darkness, and though she knows she's only shadows herself, it's still hard to shake the sense that Krista sees her, sees right through her, down to the core.

"I'm fine," she says. "You know me. Too damn bitter for even a titan to eat anyway."

There's a rustle of cloth, Krista shifting her weight, fidgeting the way she does when there's something she wants to say and she's not really sure she ought to. Then she crosses the room on soundless feet to stand beside the bed, looking down at Ymir, considering.

"You say that," she says quietly. "I don't think you really mean it."

The mattress dips beneath her weight, and then she's sitting there with her legs curled up beneath her, a compact, silent presence where there had been only absence before. She's close enough to touch, but Ymir doesn't touch her, only thinks about it, and about the way she smells like soap and something astringent, clean and sharp with all traces of the day's blood and filth washed away. Not healed, but healing, the slow, messy, human way.

"I didn't want to die back there," she says, like it's something to be ashamed of. "Not like that."

And that's the thing, isn't it? Nobody wants to die like that. It probably doesn't hurt worse than a bullet to the chest or a knife to the throat, or at least not for very long, but it's still the worst fate anyone here can imagine. Ymir feels her mouth pull into a scowl, and stills it, shifts it into a tight-lipped smile.

"And what?" she says. "That's a crime, now, is it? It makes you a monster, wanting to live?" She's angry at someone, the military for saying it or Krista for believing it or maybe just herself, for being what she is. But Krista doesn't answer her, only looks away, down at her folded hands. Ymir imagines taking one of those hands, tracing the creases in her palm and smoothing away the tension there, telling her she has no idea what it is that makes someone a monster. But that's a mistake - Krista already knows all that anyone needs to about monsters, human or otherwise, and Ymir can't promise her safety or absolution or even much in the way of kindness. All she has to offer is a confession of her own.

"I could have done more today."

"Everyone thinks that," Krista says.

"I know it." That's all. Just the simple truth of it. Her throat aches, and if she keeps talking now, she'll say so much more than she ever meant to. But Krista takes that choice away with a shake of her head, presses a finger to Ymir's lips to quiet her before drawing back to trace the shape of her face, first tentative and then sure. She has an instant to freeze beneath that touch, anger and shame bleeding uneasily into a keener anticipation, and to tell herself that she's deluding herself, and anything she does now will only make her more the fool. And then Krista is leaning over her, just looking down, and her breath catches, and all she can think about is how she's dreamed of this, and never imagined it would happen like this.

 _Bold,_ she thinks, as Krista bends down, one hand skimming the shape of Ymir's ribs beneath her nightshirt, and Ymir's hands come up to tangle in her hair and pull her down, and they catch each other in an urgent, unpracticed kiss. And for a long moment, that's all there is to care about - no blood, no smoke, no fear or cowardice, only the heat of Krista's hands on her skin, the weight and taste of her as she leans into the kiss, all tongue and teeth. Too bold. And not bitter at all.

And with that thought, Ymir takes her by the upper arms and pushes her back, just far enough to let herself think clearly.

"You really shouldn't - " she starts, but she can't get the words out, if she even knows what she's saying at all. Shouldn't what? Be here? Let herself be caught up with the likes of Ymir? It hardly matters. It's all true. But Krista only shrugs off her hold without resistance, knocks her hands away and leaves her feeling rough and graceless, far too much of a fool.

"I am tired," Krista says, "of hearing about everything I really shouldn't do."

But she's pulling away again all the same, gone cold and quiet because she'll never let herself be angry, and Ymir knows that in one more moment she'll be gone entirely. So she moves without thinking to catch Krista's sleeve, loose enough to let her slip free if she wants to, and before she can stop herself, she says, "then stay."

Krista goes still, all animal wariness, poised on the edge of a decision.

"Does it bother you?" she says, words forced out in the space between two breaths. "Having me here? Only, I thought - "

"Bother me?" Ymir says, with a choked-off laugh. "No, it doesn't... look, I _want_ you to stay, alright? I want - "

 _I want you,_ she thinks, _I want all of you, I want to be with you. I don't deserve to look at you, and I want you too much._

She swallows hard around the lump in her throat and says, "I want you to do what you like."

It's a lie, of course, and it's true, every word of it, and all Ymir knows is that she would give her worthless life to keep this idiot martyr safe, and maybe there's a world where that's enough to count as redemption. Maybe, if she's lucky, it's even this one.

Krista nods once, so damned composed even now, and says, "then I will."

She settles down again at Ymir's side, a compact weight, all shadow and moonlight bound up in the shape of a girl, or a goddess, or some stupid myth like that. But she's not a myth. She's a person, sinew and muscle and scar tissue, blood running red beneath her skin. After a moment, Ymir wraps an arm around her and lets a hand come to rest at the small of her back, holding her close and still. No kisses this time. Ymir isn't sure what she would do if they were offered, whether she would push Krista away again or pull her down, like sharp-toothed river maidens pull down drowning men. She's certain, somehow, that Krista would go willing, like the sailors in stories always do.

Ymir can feel the bandages that wrap around her chest and up over one shoulder, and she's afraid, and maybe a little jealous, of how readily she throws herself at death. There would be red lines crisscrossing her body, if Ymir could only see them, abrasions and darkening bruises and the raised paths of older scars running up her muscled back and along her ribs, beneath the thin cloth of her nightshirt. But she can only find where they lie through touch, a map drawn blind, and through the way that Krista winces, breathes in sharp and tells her not to let go.

She knows it's too dark for Krista to see that her own injuries have healed already, but she wonders if it's possible to tell by touch that there's something strange about her, the unbroken smoothness of her skin in a world where everyone bears their scars. Or whether Krista can feel the furnace in her ribcage, the bellows of her lungs, the way it feels sometimes like she's going to burn up from the inside out and leave nothing behind but steam and pieces of charred bone. She feels like that now, like that now, anchored to her own crude physicality, like something clumsy and hungry and inhuman. But if Krista notices, the secret falls between them unspoken, just one among many others, lost in the empty space between skin and skin.

"I was afraid," Krista says, her voice muffled against the hollow of Ymir's throat. Ymir cradles her, a hand curled at the back of her head, and asks, "are you still afraid?"

"No."

"Good," Ymir says, her voice rough again because some things hurt to say. "Got no cause to be."

 _Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until they send us out to die, and even then, I got no plans to let you._ But that's the kind of shit she doesn't need to worry about now, and she wants a night, just one lousy night, when she doesn't have to think about anyone dying.

Well, that's her choice, isn't it? What she thinks about, what she does next, that's all up to her. Always has been. Only thing that's changed is that she's got someone else to account for too, and that's not such a price to pay.

"Ain't gonna stop you if you wanna stick around tonight," Ymir says, though she's not sure how closely Krista is listening anymore. She breathes in the smell of soap and clean linen, stroking Krista's hair, talking soft and slow and as close to gentle as she can manage. "We won today, y'know? Got our asses kicked, sure, but we didn't die. We can worry about the rest in the morning."

And she figures that's all that needs to be said about that, but Krista lifts her head slightly and says one more thing, her breath brushing over Ymir's skin with every word. "And if I want to stick around after tonight?"

Ymir feels her stomach lurch like she's gone weightless for a second, feels her heart stop and start and jump to a new, faster pace, but all she says is, "like I said, ain't gonna stop you."

Krista murmurs something that sounds like agreement and shifts closer, on the edge of sleep now, and it's a strange feeling, to be so liked and so trusted. Not entirely comfortable, but worth any amount of discomfort.

 _Yeah, well, we'll see how she feels when she learns the truth of things,_ Ymir thinks. But the reminder isn't enough to stop the warmth that floods her chest, unfamiliar as hope and not at all like the rush of boiling steam beneath her skin, or the selfish certainty that they're not too different, bastard and broken and monstrous as they are, so they might as well be all those things together.

She looks back up, searching the ceiling and its shadows as Krista settles into sleep still pressed against her, and she lets the stillness wash over her in lieu of answers she knows she'll never find. The battle's still there in her head, a muted clamor; the faces of the dead haven't vanished. She knows she could call them up if she went looking. But with Krista there, it's easier to point her thoughts forward instead, to all the lands she means to travel someday, just her and the girl beside her and no chains or steel cables to tie them down. And there's no use in wishing, she knows that - better to just take what you're after and damn the rest - but it's all too easy to imagine it all the same.

Krista is snoring now, louder than any royal scion ought. In the morning, Ymir will tease her about that, and about how she has to tuck the blanket up around her shoulders, trying not to wake her. For now, though, she just sinks into the warmth of someone else beside her, safe and not afraid, and closes her eyes to slip into the dream of an open road and a world without walls.


End file.
